The Awakening
by markgeeter
Summary: Several years after the fall of the the arcane Tevinter Magister, Corypheus, a new threat looms on the horizon. Born of the fade, it seeks revenge on those that sought to abandon it. Will a new hero arise to face the coming tide, or will Thedas be consumed by the awakening of a god.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter one**

THE RITE OF PASSAGE

 ** _L_** ike thunder gathering high above him, the cheers of all in attendance grew to a fevered pitch. The shouts and screams of riotous clamor filling the great Orlisian Coliseum with a joyous anticipation; the like of which threatening to rival his own.

Spurring his mount onward, Tristan Pentaghast lifted his sword high into the air in acknowledgment of the crowd as Nevarra custom warranted. Making his way to the center of the arena he sheathed his blade and saluted all present.

"I have to admit, the use of the Inquisitor's helmet was a nice touch," Ambassador, Lord Dorian Pavus said looking down on the spectacle below. "Your champion doesn't look half bad considering."

"Considering what, sparkles," Lord Varric Tethras said, biting into a haunch of boar meat, allowing the juices to run down his fingers.

Offering the dwarven commissioner a handkerchief, "His association with you for starters," Dorian sighed. "I guess the fact he's listed among some of the best warriors in Thedas should also bear mentioning."

"The helm was a gift from the Inquisitor himself," High Lord Seeker, Cassandra Pentaghast said, seated next to the Venatori Ambassador and Kirkwall's Provisional Viscount on the lower balcony of the coliseums' high stands. "He thought it would help the boy's confidence. Yet, it may only serve to add undo pressure. Surely Tristan is anxious enough; given the notoriety of those in attendance."

Sipping Orlesian spice wine, "Not everyone cringes in fear of a little recognition Lord Seeker," Varric said. "Besides, you should have more faith in our abilities; we did train him after all."

"I for one think he'll do fine given his showing thus far. It is no small feat for a boy of sixteen to have won a place on the closing list among men twice his age and with untold combat experience."

"Yeah, but he did it with his skills in archery Dorian," Varric stated. "That said; if he can manage to avoid Du'pont until the end…he may outlast the others in the final melee. With any luck, that bastard will be eliminated before our boy enters the inner circle."

"I pray the Maker your right Varric," Lady Cassandra said turning her attention to the field. "It will devastate Tristan should he be expelled too soon."

"They seem to favor you, boy," Sir Donavan Hoggal Trillius said hearing the crowd swell at Tristan's approach.

Removing his helm, clearing long wet strands of raven-black hair from his eyes, "Then I shall not disappoint them, Sir," the young knight said patting his horse's neck; the chestnut colored Fereldan Forder snorting loudly as it veered away from Sir Donavan's dracolisk.

Sitting atop a Basking Longma dracolisk, the lizard like mount adorned in blood red battle armor to match its master; Sir Donavan wore a helm crafted to resemble a cretahl. A hideous ancient beast, cretahl's were known for smashing their prey with a horned head before consuming both flesh and bone. Unmistakable, the level of Tevinter craftsmanship was apparent; Tristan noting the various scrollwork engraved in the enormous knight's helm, gauntlets, pauldrons and gardbrace above his right shoulder.

Warriors all, the twenty plus men and women competing in today's purging ceremony were some of the finest combatants in Thedas. Soldiers, mages and freelancers alike, all had been lured into the contest with the hope of wealth, prestige and honor; many backed by noble houses seeking favor and recognition amongst their peers. A three-week tournament drawing anyone of note to Orlais in the Exalted Plains, the games were a way to unite Thedas after the defeat of Corypheus. Established by the Chantry three years following, the games were held to celebrate the end of the _**Time of Attrition.**_ The period of time when the arcane Tevinter Magister threated to bring about the end of the world for what many believed to be his second attempt. Looking up at the large rainbow like ribbon slashing the sky, a reminder of the fade rift that almost destroyed the world ten years earlier, Tristan recalled the various stories Lord Varric had recounted during their endless training sessions. Centered on the dwarven lord's time with the Inquisition, Tristan found his tales to be somewhat farfetched; given Lord Varric's penchant for embellishment. Only a child of five years during the great cataclysm, the young knight could still recall the many letters sent to his father by his aunt Cassandra. Wishing to spare the family the worry and concern they felt; given the reports and rumors surrounding the death of the Divine Justinia, she had been elusive in her description of events. In her correspondence she made little mention of the blight covering the land and the fall of Corypheus. Sheltered from any knowledge regarding the breach in the sky, Tristan never knew how close the end of the world had come.

With a deafening cheer, the noise of the arena ascended far above previous heights. Turning like all present, Tristan watched the field of participants part for a second time. Unable to hear the announcement of the next contestant named over the roar of the people, only the blast of several conch horns alerted all gathered that the highest ranking warrior was entering the arena.

Luminous in the noon sun, seated atop a soft blue Tirashan Swiftwind, Sir Xavier Benoȋt Du'pont made his way toward the front of the list to the eruption of the masses. A champion of several royal tournaments and duels, the noble knight was considered one of the finest swordsmen in all of Thedas. Named, The Silver Halla, he was thought to be a thing of beauty on the field of battle. Taking top honors in the last three of five melee events over a two-week span; the elder knight was easily favored to win the tournament's final showing. Greeted with unbridled admiration from the crowd, he was adorned in silver plated reinforced Orlesian armor accented with gold mail underlay. The silver haired Orlesian glimmering like a diamond; the sight causing many on the field to look away. Around his neck, draping his shoulders, a red fox-fur cape with the royal Orlesian symbol hung past the crop of his mount's flanks. The knight saluting all seated in the upper stands as he trotted slowly toward the list.

"Oh my, now there is a sight to behold," Lord Dorian said stroking his mustache.

"Calm yourself sparkles, that there is the enemy."

"Don't worry Varric, the man is all show, a true champion requires no such antics," Lady Cassandra said, gulping wine nervously. "Tristan will find a way to best him should they meet, I'm sure of it."

"If that were you down there, I'd have little doubt of today's outcome Lord Seeker," Dorian said captivated. "But, the odds aren't exactly leaning in our young champion's..."

"What say we make a friendly wager Ambassador," Varric interrupted. "Our boy outlasts your crush before all is said and done. What say you, one hundred gold pieces?"

"You're on, my impetuous little Provisional Viscount."

Like most children growing up in Nevarra, Tristan had developed a deep appreciation for art, music and literature. His homeland devoted to all forms of artistry had always celebrated the long and illustrious history of Thedas in its culture. Most of the buildings in the cities and towns had been constructed by combining both ancient and modern Thedas architecture. The streets and under tunnels of the breathtaking principalities littered with lush green gardens, colossal statues, and elaborate carvings depicting heroes and creatures of legend. Only the silent tombs of the dead rivaled them in beauty, and only one thing overshadowed his people's profound respect for their dead; their love of combat. Above all else, understanding the art of war was essential in surviving a family renowned for slaying dragons; of all things. Being born a Pentaghast; with an aunt that helped to save the world on several occasions, he was expected to attain a moderate amount of greatness of his own. Examining his competition, looking at the warriors arrayed around him, Tristan supposed today would be as good a time to begin.

Nodding graciously, acknowledging Du'pont, "A pleasure to meet you Sir…," Tristan had begun to say.

"We shall see," Sir Du'pont interrupted with a thick Orlesian accent as his hart nudged between Tristan and Sir Donavan's mounts.

A deer like animal, Du'pont's hart was armored in silver plate with small hoops of gold decorating its large antlers. Majestic and proud, much like its owner, it demanded attention to the delight of the crowd.

"Today, I think you shall learn a fine lesson, my young friend," Sir Du'pont continued, causing his mount to curtsy. "A lesson taught in equal part skill and grace, yes?"

"I don't know; the boy hasn't done half bad, all things considered," Audius Burdock said, never looking up. The dwarven pirate lord sitting a miniature Fereldan Bay on the opposite side of Tristan. "And some might argue; you could use a lesson in manners…or humility."

Amused, "Preposterous, do you truly believe an instructor to be found amongst this rabble," Sir Du'pont laughed. "Or will you…or perhaps this child, discipline me in the fine art of victory dwarf?"

An adventurer and sailor, Captain Audius Burdock was one of the most famous dwarves in Thedas only second to Lord Varric. Rumored to be a smuggler and pirate for the Carta, the dwarven criminal guild, it was said Captain Burdock had been born at sea and had never ventured underground. Even given his stature most found the dwarven pirate to be an intimidating figure. Wearing no armor, only deep blue padded leather pants, boots and vest; his face was hidden under a thick orange beard braided to mid chest. Covering his arms and clean shaven head strange arcane symbols were seared; the noon sun causing the bizarre shapes to glisten and seemingly slither beneath his dark amber skin. His weapon, a dragon bone war hammer sheath to his back, made the dwarf appeare to be as dangerous as any man on the field of battle.

"I was thinking more of losery; but yeah, I think he could," Burdock said flatly. "I saw your last two matches Du'pont, a bit underwhelming to say the least. Could be, you've lost a step in your declining years."

"You, you dare insult me," Du'pont said reaching for his sword.

With another blast cutting through the uproar of the crowd, all in attendance turned their attention to the main tower dividing the northern coliseum's high stands.

Outwardly enraged, "May the abyss have you both," Du'pont said glaring at Tristan before spitting on the ground. "I pray Andraste we meet in combat this day, boy," he finished, releasing the hilt of his sword as he adjusted himself in his saddle.

"I think he means to kill us both," Captain Burdock said, never looking up. "But, I'm sure he'll begin with you."

Seated in the upper balconies of the Queen's Spire, overlooking the populace assembled below, the wealthiest nobles and dignitaries of Thedas viewed the ceremonies. The Orlesian Empress, her royal court and guest occupying the highest terrace of the three that encompassed the lofty ivory tower. Following a series of trumpets and short pauses, silence washed over the crowd as a hush blanketed the arena. Stepping forward from the shadows of the tower into the light, the Orlesian Empress Celene Valmont spoke; her voice amplified by the use of several kuldol-fish shells anchored to the upper balcony's railing.

"It has pleased us to bear witness to your many deeds over the course of these marvelous games," She said addressing her audience. "For this honor, we thank the Maker and our Divine Victoria; by whom he has purposed this auspicious occasion. One in which; many fine and capable warriors have fallen in defeat, to our despair…but, delightfully, you have all risen. Truly, you have entertained us and won our hearts, and will be celebrated forever. Nevertheless, as always, only one may be our champion. Prepare yourselves brave men and women of Thedas; for the culling begins again…may the Maker strengthen and cloak you in his grace."

"Culling, really," Varric said applauding. "An interesting word I guess; but I'd have gone with…oh say, bloodletting. Sure, it leaves less to the imagination, but really grabs the attention of the listener."

"I suppose, but it's far less civilized," Dorian said. "And we do know how much our Orlesian friends covet their civility with their bloodshed."

Peering down onto the arena, "Enough you two, the tournament will begin soon," Cassandra said standing. "I do so wish I could attend him on the field. If only to remind the boy not to drop his guard as he tends to do when lunging."

"Relax Cassandra, you're making me nervous and I'm not even competing," Varric said. "He'll be fine, with all the Chantry's Circle Mages and Templar Knights overseeing the combat; I doubt he'll walk away with a chipped tooth as a souvenir."

"Yes, our beloved Divine Victoria has rather made a name for herself over these past few years," Dorian said. "Who could have foreseen mages and Templars working hand and hand? It's like something out of one of your romance novels Varric."

"Not even close, I'm not that good Dorian. My plot twists are too subtle and unlike Vivienne, I'm painfully predictable when pairing romantic leads."

"I find little fault with, Divine Victoria," Cassandra said taking her seat. "…at least not in this instance. She has found a way to bring two fractured factions together. The Templar Order was never founded to suppress mages, but rather assist them in controlling their abilities. Perhaps it was the Inquisition that won our Divine her appointment; nonetheless, it shall be her decisions that shape her legacy. Those looking to criticize the harshness of the her initial reforms can hardly scorn the results thus far."

Sipping wine, "The lady is shrewd, I'll give her that," Varric said. "She alone decides where these games are to be held throughout Thedas; the nobles cater to her for the chance to host in their territories every year. My own counsel has partitioned her on numerous occasions to consider Kirkwall. Not that she ever would."

"No one can hold that against her," Dorian interrupted. "Kirkwall is hardly suitable for as grand an event as this."

"Yeah, well every spring the woman has my staff running around like mice performing deeds in the name of the Chantry in spite of that fact. And who gets all the credit for the good I do throughout the year…our Divine, that's who."

Gesturing to the coliseum floor below, "Not to mention, with the use of this new arm of the Templar Order, the _**Dunrosha**_ , she exhibits her control over the Templar and mages rather effectively," Cassandra said.

Marching into the coliseum as the combatants cleared the list and took the field; a legion of Dunrosha took up position around four rings of blue lyrium stones embedded in the arena floor. An elite group of Templar Enchanter Knights, the men and women of the Divine Guard, had become what most now called the Chantry's, Grey Wardens. Trained and led by members of the failing order of wardens, the Dunrosha was ever vigilant in their investigation of darkspawn and supernatural corruption throughout Thedas. Outfitted in white Grey Warden armor with gold underlay, black leather accents and boots, the divine knights presented white staffs adorn with jewels of blue lyrium. Standing motionless, surrounding the four smaller rings constructed at equal distances outside a much larger sphere of lyrium stones, they awaited the proclaiming of the first horns. Gathered inside the smaller rings, divided into groups according to their rankings, Tristan and the other warriors assembled themselves with their weapon bearers. Their attendants caring for their last minute needs before the competition began.

Dressed in white robes, a vast choir of Circle Mages entered the grounds singing as everyone looked on. With the soft resonance of, "The Dawn Will Come" filling the air, a hymn sang after the fall of Haven by the survivors of Skyhold, the crowd immediately joined them. Together, like the calm before a great storm, they sang in unison. The once fevered pitch of excitement briefly quelled in the somber reflection of the song being carried on the wind.

"Are you nervous," Callum inquired, adjusting Tristan's armor, the elfish boy pounding his fist on the breast plate of the purplish-blue suit. Crafted to fit like a second skin, the ancient design of the armor appeared to be that of the enlightened armor worn by elven sentinels of old. The appearance favored by Lord Dorian had been the Venatori Ambassador's contribution to what he called, a rite of passage for the young knight.

"No, not really," Tristan whispered checking the weight of his shield.

"There…I believe you're ready. Remember, trust your training and if you can, keep everyone in front of you; and be mindful of the lyrium stones. Also, don't forget to raise your shield when you lunge; you tend to drop it slightly before striking."

Shoving Callum away playfully, "You sound like Lady Cassandra," Tristan said in jest.

"I advise you to heed me either way, it's among one of your greatest flaws and could be ill-used against you," Callum replied, placing the Inquisitor's helm on Tristan's head. "Regarding Lady Cassandra, you know I'll only take that as a complement."

"As you should…even if not intended. My aunt is a great warrior; I only wish to make her proud. Thank you for helping me do so, your aid has been invaluable; I won't forget it."

His best friend and sparring partner for more than four years, Callum was Lady Cassandra's charge by way of Lord Dorian. Purchased after the death of his mother by the Tevinter lord, Callum had been sent to be trained at the Hall of the Seekers in New Haven. Two years younger than Tristan, with wheat colored hair, the thin wiry boy stood a head taller. Half elven and human with long rounded ears, he was gifted in the use of spirit magic and fast becoming a healer under the guidance of Sage Seeker Armmon.

"The woman of the Free Marches is the only mage you face this round, but her magic is strong, be mindful of that," Callum said studying the other competitors inside the ring. "The elf and the large Orlesian will undoubtedly try to eliminate you first before focusing on the woman. I'd suggest you seek to divide them and injure the weaker of the two before they can regroup. If the woman is wise, she may even assist you; they'll certainly turn on her should you be defeated."

As in the other rings, the five to six competitors preparing to compete would naturally try to eliminate the highest ranking combatant at the start of the conflict. Although only one would be permitted to enter the larger inner circle from each ring; in the past, lesser warriors often collaborated before turning on each other. Some warriors believing a partnership gave them the best chance to emerge victorious as champion. Ready to take their leave with the blowing of the first horns, all armor and weapon bearers collected their things and prepared to depart the field.

"Lotesse i' Arda osta i' anar collo i' sul karna swift lle lakilea, Mellonamin," Callum said patting Tristan on the shoulder, reciting an elven prayer of protection while leading away the young knight's mount.

Sliding his sword from its sheath and presenting his shield, Tristan watched the other participants spread out and reposition themselves. Outside the stone rings the Dunrosha Knights stepped forward and raised their staffs into the air. Shouting an incantation, they constructed a dome barrier of dispelling magic enclosing the rings and warriors within. Eyeing Tristan as they glanced at each other, the large Orlesian warrior wielding a great-sword stood to the right of a hairless elven rogue brandishing dual blades. Both dressed in fine fitted armor, one wore the mark of House Fairchild of Orlais and the other that of House Celsius from Antiva. Maneuvering away from them, the cloaked woman of the Free Marches stood at the ready holding a wooden staff with a large glowing bloodstone in its center. Dressed in a shimmering reddish-orange enchanter's robe, she displayed no distinguishing marks of any house. The strange garment, woven in a material unlike any Tristan had ever seen; appeared to flicker in the wind like the flames of a great camp fire.

"Are you frightened boy," the elf said striking his blades together. "As faint as it is; I can still smell your fear from here."

"You needn't worry, this will be over soon enough," the warrior finished, displaying his weapon.

With the sounding of the second horns, the large warrior rushed toward Tristan with his great-sword dragging the earth causing dust to ascend from the arena floor. Girding himself, tightening the grip on his shield, Tristan allowed his sword arm to fall to his side. From the corner of his eye he saw the rogue disappear, the assassin's trick seemingly causing the elf to vanish instantly. Lost in his blind-spot, an optical defect most creatures possessed in their peripheral vision, Tristan shifted in an effort to locate the tall slender elf. Turning suddenly hearing the gasp of the crowd as he deflected the slicing blades of the assassin with his sword, Tristan lashed out with his shield.

A pincer attack, obviously designed to leave the young knight's backside exposed, had only been a distraction. Fixed against the wild strikes of the elf, Tristan planted his feet firmly into the earth unmoving. The elf's opening gambit meant to drive him back giving the Orlesian the opportunity to deliver a clean finishing blow. Warding off the brunt of his attacker's assault as the elf glided away, the young knight quickly repositioned his guard stance. With a loud yell the warrior lifted his sword and sought to bring the colossal weapon down on the boy's head; no doubt ending any chance he had of winning or walking away with his life. Stepping back spinning suddenly, closing the distance between the large man and himself, Tristan knelt as he raised his shield overhead. The sudden movement causing the warrior to shorten his strides and readjust as he brought the weight of his weapon down in an awkward arch leaving himself off balance. Redirecting the force of the blow off the side of his shield, Tristan drove the spiked pommel of his sword into the man's foot. Rolling away, hearing the sickening crunch of metal plate, broken flesh and bone; the young knight leapt to his feet braced behind his shield. Around him the arena came to life with applause. Although he couldn't be sure their affection had been meant entirely for him or another, he beat his sword against his shield in acceptance. Watching, keeping her distance away from the conflict, the cloaked woman studied him, her approval sensed beneath her hooded robe.

"Well, I dare say your nephew is somewhat of a showman, Lady Cassandra," Dorian said fully invested in the games. "No doubt a trait picked up while training with Varric I'd wager."

Delighted, "No Dorian, the ringing of his shield is a custom of House Pentaghast," Cassandra said proudly. "It is how we honor the dead and tempt death in battle."

"I can't wait to hear the logic behind that, Lord Seeker," Varric said, pouring more wine. "I always assumed you did it because you're such a badass."

"I hardly portray myself as a, 'badass', Varric. Besides, it's not that complicated. Only the living can tempt the dead and the boy is simply telling all in attendance; he's having the time of his life."

Moving behind the knelling warrior as he sought to stand using his sword, the elf disarmed him; kicking away the weapon as he put a dagger to the large man's throat. Voicing their disapproval many in the crowd hissed and chanted slanders as the elf circled the fallen man taunting him.

"What say you, is he still a danger," the elf asked Tristan, slicing beneath the man's armpit. "Should I end him or will he stay down? Do you yield," he said taunting, slicing the man's other armpit? "There, now he won't be such a distraction while we sort things out."

Grunting, unable to lift his arms, the large warrior moaned and crashed face first into the dust. Without warning the assassin sprinted toward Tristan. Feeling blades ring against his guard, Tristan lunged forward deflecting the strikes with his shield; causing the elf to give ground. Countering and jabbing with a series of attacks aimed at the elf's face, Tristan watched the rogue glide away effortlessly, putting distance between them once more.

"Oh well, it was worth a try," the rogue said smiling. "Guess I'll have to…"

Rushing toward the cloaked woman as she lowered her staff, the assassin tried to halt his momentum. Feeling the air around him grow cold as the woman uttered an incantation, Tristan swiftly brought his shield up to his face. As though summoned from the abyss itself, a wall of fire rose up in front of her. The glow and heat intensified by the magic enclosure as dispelling magic drew the inferno upward seeking to extinguish the flames. In an effort to protect himself, the elven assassin bound back and covered himself; the heat of the enchantment lingering in the air as the woman raised her staff strengthening the spell. Charging forward, rushing toward the recoiling elf, Tristan drove his shield into the assassin's back. Dropping his guard slightly in an effort to locate his target as he brought his sword across his body; a blinding flash of light forced the young knight to lift his shield instinctively.

"Very clever bastard," the assassin grunted, slowly retrieving one of his fallen blades. "Next time, I take your eye, boy."

Discarding his helm, retreating as searing pain caused him to stumble back, Tristan blinked repeatedly seeing the elf stagger to his feet through half lidded eyes. Visibly shaken and disoriented as he gathered himself, the elf was caught off guard by what followed. Hearing the woman cast another spell, he sought to sprint away before falling forward; crippled by Tristan's attack as his legs gave way beneath him. Like a fish drawn from water, twisting midair, the tall slender elf's body was ablaze in a ball of fire. Crashing admits cries and screams as he thrashed on the ground; the mage's bright flames engulfed him as they sought to consume him entirely. With cheers and laughter filling the arena, everyone in attendance seemingly approved as the assassin rose then fell. The dispelling barrier once again siphoning off the flames as the smoldering elf lay motionless between Tristan and the cloaked woman.

Twirling her staff in a display of skill, "Yield and I will spare you his fate, child," the woman said, stopping to aim the long wooden weapon.

Of all forms of elemental magic fire was the least commonly displayed among novice mages. The enchantments, although the easiest to utilize, were fueled by focusing intense emotions such as hate, fear, rage or love in order to manipulate the veil. Because of this, any mage practicing fire magic drew the attention of spirits within the fade and ran the highest risk of spiritual possession by darker entities. It was due to this, that inexperienced mages tended to shy away from fire magic until skilled enough to control the emotional strains that accompanied it. The use of such magic often indicating the level of skill and mental determination acquired by the summoning practitioner.

Feeling blood flow down his face, "I extend the same offer to you," Tristan said darting to his right as the woman tracked him with her staff.

Stopping abruptly, as the large bloodstone at the center of the weapon suddenly came to life, he steadied himself. Without making a sound, electricity erupted from the cloaked woman's weapon. The wide arching wave of light heating the air as it popped and crackled. Bringing his shield up as the glowing blue arc exploded against it, Tristan fought to maintain his balance; the force of the blast pushing him back as his heels dug into the earth.

 _By the Maker, this woman's magic is incredible_ , he thought hiding behind his guard.

Warming his body, causing his muscles to spasm as it danced along the surface of his armor, the electrical current bled off gradually. Crafted to protect him against a degree of all elemental magic, Tristan's armor was enchanted to dispel mage fire; the intensely hot demonic veilfire that burned three times hotter than normal flames. Another gift from Lord Dorian, the hidden wards had been carved on the inside of the armors' quartz plating. The Tevinter lord unwilling to deface the elven armor with what he felt was garish scrollwork and etchings. Regaining his composure, Tristan carefully began to circle the woman as she stared at him cautiously. Sensing her confusion as to how he still stood after her attack; more than likely the strongest amongst them he hoped, Tristan sought to bait her.

"My offer still stands," he said lowering his shield.

"I would be lying to say your skill is not without merit, boy! But, you'd be a fool to ever believe me at your mercy!"

"Then the time has come, as Lord Varric would say; 'to lay our cards on the table."

Lifting his sword like a dagger drawn from its sheath, Tristan heaved the weighted weapon with all his might. Chasing in behind the heavily slung sword, he danced from left to right before sliding to a dead stop. Surprised, the woman raised her staff to deflect his sword that threatened to sever her head from her body. Grunting, gnashing her teeth as she turned away, the impact of the weapon forced her to stagger backwards; the sword driving her staff into her chest as she slammed into the enchanted barrier. Observing the woman bounce off the magic enclosure, tossing away his shield, Tristan released a hooked chain from the housing inside his gauntlet with a flick of his wrist. Casting the thin veridium linked chain outward as he pulled against it, he ensnared the woman's waist and stood. With all his strength he pulled, taking the mage off her feet as her staff fell from her grasp. Disarmed and lying face down beneath him, Tristan pressed his boot into the woman's spine.

"Yield," he demanded, pressing harder. "Yield or be broken."

Patting the ground vigorously, "I yield, I yield," the woman wailed.

Raising his hand, claiming victory to the delight of the crowd as they applauded and sang his name, Tristan helped the woman to her feet. Over them the shimmering dome of blue dispelling magic dissolved as Circle Mages rushed into the ring to attend the fallen warriors. Allowing himself a brief moment to enjoy the adoration of the crowd, Tristan turned his attention to the larger ring. Being cared for by their attendants, Sir Du'pont, Sir Donavan and Captain Burdock awaited him, all looking none the worse for wear.

"You did well," Callum said retrieving Tristan's sword. "The woman was very proficient; I wasn't sure you'd best her."

Wiping sweat from his brow, "Compared to Lord Dorian she wasn't that menacing," Tristan said. "How long have they been waiting?"

"Sir Du'pont finished first, to no one's surprise. His match was rather uneventful given the level of competition he faced. Actually, he fought with a ferocity I hadn't thought him capable of. Second to conclude was Captain Burdock; you should take care to avoid his war-hammer, it's enchanted or perhaps protected with runes. Upon striking it, the swords of two foes shattered like glass during combat. Truly a sight to behold; given Lord Hess axes appeared to be conjured from veilfire. Sir Donavan was third; and he simply overpowered everyone on the field. Do not underestimate the man's speed given his size, he moves like a great bear dressed in silks."

"Yes, his armor is enchanted, I took note of it before the purging began."

Gathering Tristan's discarded shield, "Come, we have little time to prepare; I should see to your face before the final event," Callum said. "Lord Dorian and half the maids of **Haven** would never forgive me if I left it marred."

"No magic, I wish to keep the scar," Tristan said wincing. "Let it be a reminder to never lower my shield."

"Very well; perhaps the elf did you a favor in that regard. Applying Master Armmon's mixture of spindleweed, elf-root and dawn lotus won't improve your looks, but should close the wound and dull the pain quite nicely."

Removed from the field on horse drawn carts, the wounded were taken to a sanatorium beneath the arena. With the ringing of bells, the choir of mages returned to sing once more. Singing songs written to celebrate the festivities; lively tunes from across the narrow sea never heard in Thedas, they appeased the crowd. In the low stands; jugglers, merchants, minstrels and dancers moved throughout the people plying their trades. The entertainment designed to grant the remaining participants as well as the onlookers a brief respite before the final melee.

"Well, the lad made it to the inner circle. That has to account for something."

"He did not train in hopes of being second, Dorian," Cassandra said standing, looking over the arena.

"Don't mind him, Lord Seeker; I think the realization of actually losing our bet is starting to set in," Varric said smiling. "Du'pont looked a little distracted during that last match, rushed; that could cost him against the likes of Donavan and Burdock. So like I said; with a little luck our boy could out last them all."

Admiring the festivities, "I hardly think dispatching your opponent in near record time qualifies as being, 'rushed' Varric," Dorian rebutted. "An impressive feat in and of itself, given the prowess of his foes. That said, and our wager notwithstanding; it would be a pleasure to see the lad win…however unrealistic his odds may be."

"The games will begin shortly, then all speculation will be put to rest one way or the other," Lady Cassandra said pensively.

Making his way over to a small bench and table placed within the large circle, Tristan removed his gauntlets, pauldrons and breastplate. Allowing Callum time to tend his wounds he set and was given water and Sage Armmon's sour honey wine. After patching him up, Callum inspected his armor for any defects suffered during combat, the fair-haired boy weaving a minor restoration spell taught to him by Lord Dorian as he pounded out small dents.

 _I wonder what Lady Cassandra truly thinks of my showing thus far_ , Tristan thought, turning to study the other remaining contestants. _She would never tell me if she thought me ill prepared to face this challenge. Nor discourage my desire to surpass her in deeds and renown._

"Sir Donavan has changed his armor," Tristan said seeing the large man stretching with the help of several attendants; trying to adjust to a new black suit of obsidian armor. "He looks the part of a black porcupine or cactus," the polished black suit adorned with countless spikes covering the enormous knight's back and legs.

"I believe his first suit was damaged during battle," Callum said examining his own handiwork. "Could be; the magic protecting it was weakened or corrupted by some enchanted weapon. This should do, although I can't be sure Lord Dorian's spell worked."

Dressing, Tristan gathered his sword and shield. Sparring lightly with Callum who used a wooden practice sword, they carefully recounted the events of his last match.

"What advice would you give me," Tristan asked stepping away from Callum's attack.

"None, I'm hardly qualified to assess the skills of any of these men you'll face shortly. But, I will convey a message from your aunt, 'You are Pentaghast, crafted of fire and steel…"

"…tempered with blood…shed of just men." Tristan finished, sheathing his sword.

Walking over to the bench, Callum retrieved a small wooden crate decorated with elaborate scroll work.

"What is that," Tristan asked.

"A gift from Lady Cassandra. She commanded I withhold it until you won your purging round. I believe she intended to bestow it herself; if you were somehow defeated during your last match."

Opening the box Tristan glanced at Callum and then into the high stands. Removing a piece of crimson silk, he uncovered an extremely short short-sword; the leaf shaped weapon extending about the length of his forearm. Exquisite in design, the blade had been crafted using silverite, the extremely rare metal gleaming in the sunlight as elven script glowed blue like veins beneath its skin.

"Callum, can you read what is written on the blade," Tristan asked carefully taking the weapon out of the crate.

"No, it's an ancient dialect unknown to me. I doubt even the Dalish of Valletta'darth could translate it. The craftsmanship is remarkable all the same. It's a wonderful weapon, Lady Cassandra must have spent quite a bit to obtain it. You should honor her and give it a name after the contest."

Spinning the weapon, examining the script, "Yes, mayhap it will prove itself during battle."

Bringing an end to the respite, the sounding of first horns blared. Offering Callum his old weapon, testing the weight of the new, Tristan sheath the sword. Taking up his shield and thanking Callum once more, _fire and steel_ , the young knight thought refocusing himself.

Slowly, the combatants gathered at the center of the ring as attendants and mages carried away all items littering the field. Hearing a brief announcement as an arbiter presented them to the crowd, the squat round man igniting everyone present, Tristan and the others prepared to take their places on the battlefield.

Passing the young knight, "Truly, the Maker has heard my prayer boy, I will have my satisfaction…and your head," Sir Du'pont whispered.

"How long do you think you can last against him," Captain Burdock asked, examining daggers fixed to his waist belt.

"We shall see."

"Judging from your previous matches, I'd give you thirty seconds. Sixty, before you pissed him off."

Turning toward Burdock, "They were your words that enraged him, not mine, pirate!"

"Yeah, but it's your age that insults him," Burdock said smiling. "Not to mention, you remind the old goat his reign as champion is quickly coming to an end."

"You sought to use me as a decoy?"

"No, I seek to use you; figured we'd meet again. I'm thinking you'll come in handy before Du'pont or Donavan waste you. The way I see it; someone has to win; hell, why not me? But, I would feel bad watching that old bastard gut you like a red-tail-mud-trout, so I suggest you follow my lead or die. The choice is yours of course, but we both know; you don't stand a chance against the Orlesian or Venatori knight alone."

Falling in behind Burdock, Tristan took his place alongside the pirate on the field; the act indicating the two would compete under an informal truce until only they remained active in combat. A partnership uncommon in the final round, the chatter of whispers from the crowd could be heard throughout the arena.

Sitting up in his seat, "Well, now that's unexpected," Dorian said sipping spice wine. "Surely the boy doesn't believe he can trust the likes of Audius Burdock. The dwarf is a known smuggler and thief with suspected tides to the Qunari high counsel, the Ben-Hassrath."

"It is a wise move," Cassandra rebutted. "Against all three men, Tristan would stand little to no chance of winning. Perhaps with the aid of Burdock, he may be victorious."

"If you seek to protect the boy, I will have you both dwarf," Du'pont said, unfastening two rapier blades from his sides. Pointing one of the extremely thin weapons toward Sir Donavan, "And you; if you choose to interfere…I'll peel that ghastly armor off your Venatori hide!"

Bowing, "Eliminate them, and you'll have your chance," Sir Donavan said, planting his great-sword into the ground next to him.

Encircling the ring, the Dunrosha enclosed the inner circle in dispelling magic.

With the blasting of the horns, Tristan watched Sir Du'pont gracefully make his way across the ring toward Burdock and himself. The silver knight saluting the crowd before quickening his pace.

"Assume no stance until he moves in closer," Burdock said as Tristan prepared to defend himself. "It only serves to reveal your intent. Your armor will be useless against him, trust the strength of your sword and shield. And whatever you do, don't take your eyes off him."

Pushing Tristan away, Burdock detached his war-hammer from his back. The head of the large dragon bone weapon resembling a fist with rings of emeralds, rubies and sapphires adorning each finger; the back spike of the weapon an axe blade. Widening the distance between them the pirate captain maneuvered as if to flank Du'pont; the elder knight halting briefly before advancing once more. Smiling, quickening his pace, Du'pont sprinted across the field with weapons in hand. Rushing in to meet him under the objection of Burdock, Tristan watched the elder knight glide to a stop as he began his attack.

Like the tongues of two silver serpents, his swords hissed through the air stabbing at Tristan's guard almost playfully. The thin weapons probing his defenses as Du'pont searched for any and every weakness.

Stepping away, noting the position of his foes, "Bravo boy, your shield play is excellent," Du'pont said. "No doubt your teachers would be proud. Now I look forward to witnessing your use of that magnificent sword."

In a flash of silver and gold, the elder knight resumed his attack; forcing Tristan to give ground. Dipping in, sliding forward making the younger knight defend himself using his sword and shield, Du'pont pressed his advantage. Parrying away a series of attacks that caused him to open his guard, Tristan sought to repel various assaults aimed at the joints of his armor. Advancing behind powerful stabbing strikes, Sir Du'pont skillfully struck at his legs, arms, shoulders and knees.

 _His speed is_ _extraordinary_ , Tristan thought seeking to retreat, feeling the weight of each blow as he warded off several strikes. _He intends to exhaust me_ , _but he shall find; I do not falter easily_.

In his time spent training with Lord Varric and his aunt, Tristan had been pressed to his limit many times. Often defending himself against multiple knights as they sought to flank and corner him; each attacking from all sides using numerous strategies and techniques. For what seemed like hours, they pounded at his guard alternating between the lot of them in order to weaken his resolve. Religiously conditioned, trained and instructed in the art of breathing as well as foot work, he found more times than not he could outlast them all.

Deflecting several throwing knives hurled at him, Sir Du'pont hastily disengaged his attack. The elder knight circling away from Tristan as he sensed Burdock approaching.

"Are you a fool boy," Burdock said, cautiously stalking Du'pont. "The goat will have your head and my title if you should fall too soon. I said follow my lead!"

"No, follow my lead pirate; for I will have the measure of this man," Tristan said charging.

Deftly redirecting Du'pont's blades as he pushed the silver knight's swords aside, Tristan jabbed with his shield driving him back. Delivering a series of strikes that slid off the arm and shoulder of the retreating knight, Tristan sought to press his advantage using his shield to mask his attacks. Gracefully darting away, Du'pont evaded slashes meant to disarm or end him. The young knight directing his attacks at his wrist, chest and throat as his weapon glowed a strange blue, the aura elongating the tip of the sword.

"Du'pont is toying with him," Lady Cassandra said furiously, watching the Orlesian Lord pass up obvious strikes against his much younger opponent. "His movements are only faints meant to seduce Tristan, to draw him in closer!"

"Yes, and I doubt our young champion is even aware of it."

"Our champion Dorian; I thought you'd be happy to see that silver haired demon winning."

"There's no honor in humiliating a lesser foe Varric, even if that foe is oblivious to the insult."

Switching his weight and adjusting his stance, Du'pont allowed Tristan inside his guard. The elder knight casually deflecting his attacks while bringing them both face to face.

"You're as reckless as your name suggests," Du'pont said forcing Tristan back as they fought for leverage. "Like all Pentaghast, you throw yourself into flames assured you won't be burnt; believing yourself immune to the inevitable. Given time, you may have become a worthy adversary boy; but, as you will soon learn, time is an unfaithful mistress."

Grappling, unlocking weapons as he sensed Burdock at his back, Du'pont quickly spun away rolling around Tristan. Ramming into the young knight from behind, the elder knight prepared to thrust his sword through the back of the boy's neck. The arching design of the Inquisitor's helm leaving the spine exposed above the armor's high gorget lowered at the back of his neck.

Propelled forward, raising his shield at the last minute as he braced himself, Tristan felt all strength leave his body; his guard buckling under the force of Burdock's assault. Allowing himself to go limp, fighting to stay conscious the young knight could barely hear the sudden gasp of the crowd ringing in his ears. Like a lightning strike smashing into his shield, drowning out the unnatural sound of disintegrating metal, the pirate captain's war hammer shattered the disk into glistening fragments of shimmering veridium. The sudden explosion of energy and magic launching Tristan back as several shards of metal pierced his thigh.

"Don't get up on my account," the dwarven captain said smugly, approaching with his weapon thrown over his shoulder.

Disoriented in a heap on the arena floor, Tristan could feel Du'pont struggling to free himself from beneath him. Grabbing the elder knight, their limbs entangled, the young knight pinned him to the ground. Attacking Tristan with an armored fist, Du'pont pounded at his side; the elder knight's free hand outstretched groping for a fallen blade just beyond his reach. Lifting his hammer above his head, spinning it as he brought the back spike down, Burdock severed the Orlesian's hand from his arm. Kneeling, hearing Du'pont cursing as his screams swallowed up the cries of everyone in attendance; Burdock whispered into the mutilated knight's ear. Patting the ground with his remaining hand, Sir Du'pont conceded as his blood stained the earth around him. Smiling as he stood, Burdock gathered the severed limb and placed it in a pouch fastened to his waist belt.

"Can you fight," Burdock said looking down on Tristan. "We've got unfinished business, so tell me; will you be useful?"

Seeing Burdock touch the hilt of his dagger, "Will you," Tristan said pulling away from Du'pont before standing, taking up his sword.

"Good, very good. I didn't take you for a quitter boy; a fool perhaps, but not a quitter. That stunt…"

"He was toying with me. His plan was to draw you in closer by using me as his shield. His fear of your hammer was his undoing."

"How did you know your armor would hold and I wouldn't kill you?"

Stepping away from Burdock, "Despite your best efforts, you didn't and it did," Tristan said pulling the largest of three metal shards from his thigh.

Brandishing his long sword above his head, Sir Donavan made his way across the field. Studying his strides, it was obvious to all; his armor did little to impede the unnatural ease in which he moved. The enormous man appearing to be a living shadow sauntering across the battlefield as the sun sank lower in the sky behind him. Stopping, coming to a halt in the middle of the ring as he lodged his sword into the earth once more, he beckoned toward Burdock.

Shouldering his hammer, "He's mine boy, stay out of it," Burdock said walking toward Sir Donavan.

Watching the dwarven pirate traveling toward the obsidian clad knight, the stark contrast almost seemed amusing in an odd way. Towering over Burdock like a demon or dark spirit birth from the Fade itself, Sir Donavan threatened to block out the sun. His strange armor somehow diminishing the brilliance of light as it seemingly drank it in. In the stands, the anxious anticipation of the crowd could almost be felt; apprehension filling the air with the sound of rushing wind as all inhaled. Readying his sword as he moved in, Tristan tried to suppress the pain and discomfort of his throbbing leg, back and head. Poised outside the range of Burdock's hammer strike, he was convinced such a blow would be the dwarf's only hope of escaping Sir Donavan at close range. Watching the pirate as he lowered his hammer to the ground facing the large knight, he appeared to unfasten the pouch containing Du'pont's severed hand. Presenting it to Sir Donavan as the man removed his helm, the dwarf allowed him to examine it.

"I don't understand," Lady Cassandra said watching what was taking place below her.

"Isn't it obvious Lord Seeker," Varric said smiling. "Burdock is a ringer, a mercenary hired to thin the herd to assure Donavan wins. To be honest, I'm kind of jealous I didn't think of it myself."

"I'm sure you have Varric," Dorian said flatly. "It's only my guess, but, the detached limb of Du'pont was a bonus. I have no doubt it will find its way in the application of blood magic, many Venitori and Qunari have been known to dabble in such things."

"This is unconscionable; this man has disgraced the spirit of the games."

"The spirit of the game Lord Seeker, is war," Varric said listening to the crowd wailing and cursing, becoming aware of Burdocks betrayal. "And as you know, in war; everything is permitted on the battlefield."

"Which is why you've always fared so well, Varric," Lady Cassandra said not trying to hide the venom in her voice.

"Why we, Lord Seeker…why we've always fared so well," Varric said sipping wine.

Pointing toward Tristan while speaking to Burdock, Sir Donavan took up his great-sword. Halting the large man, Burdock placed a hand on his hammer while continuing to speak. Quarreling, looking at Tristan before finishing their conversation, Sir Donavan nodded in agreement.

Knelling before patting the ground, "Good luck boy, may your Maker…or whoever brings you fortune serve you well; you'll need it," Burdock said yielding."

With jeers and hissing the crowd littered the field in protest of Sir Donavan and Burdock's duplicity. The dark knight smiling as debris bounced off the large dispelling barrier falling harmlessly outside of the center ring. Conjuring bladed weapons of all types from the Fade itself, the Dunrosha turned facing away from the center ring toward the crowd. The act itself bringing order in an instant as the chaotic uproar fell silent.

"The dwarf has failed to kill you and Du'pont," Sir Donavan said. "I've assured him I would finish what he did not; if challenged. So tell me; will you assent or must I kill you?"

"You Sir, are without honor or courage," Tristan said adopting a defensive stance. "And I am compelled to defy you."

Placing his helm on his head, "I told the dwarf you'd prefer death," Sir Donavan sighed. "After all, you're a Pentaghast."

Drawing back his weapon, the large knight charged. The dark knight crushing the earth beneath his feet like an enormous armored bull. Opening his stance and guard, taunting Sir Donavan, Tristan braced himself as tremors resonated throughout his armor. Throwing himself forward as Sir Donavan cut the air above him, the wake of his attack causing dust to swirl around them, Tristan rolled and leapt to his feet. Rushing in behind the large knight slicing at the back of his legs, the young knight barely avoided the spikes embellishing Donavan's cuisses and greaves. The obsidian spikes jutting out like ebony long swords covering his outer thighs and calves. Turning, splitting the ground at his feet with his sword, Sir Donavan forced Tristan to withdraw. The young knight diving and rolling out of harm's way with his weapon held at the ready. Carefully, circling the arena as his weapon began to glow, Tristan studied the large knight's armor.

 _This suit was designed to keep Sir Du'pont at bay_ , he thought watching Sir Donavan beckon for him. _The spikes where meant to negate the elder knight's speed and skill. Both of which, I'm hard pressed to duplicate with any effectiveness. Void of my shield, any frontal assault against such raw power would leave me at a profound disadvantage. A fact, I have little doubt Burdock considered before shattering it. If I will defeat this villain, I must separate him from his sword._

"Come now, I long to see what you're planning," Sir Donavan said extending his sword toward Tristan. "I assure you, it will not work boy."

Attacking, bobbing from side to side as he rushed the large knight, Tristan whirled, releasing the hooked chain from his gantlet. The thin silver links lashing out like a whip as they snapped through the air. Bringing his sword up securing the chain instantaneously, Sir Donavan pulled against it, jerking the towline to himself. Taken off his feet as if weightless, Tristan fought to detach the length of chain from his gantlet as he slammed into the ground. His attack targeting the small slits in Sir Donavan's visor in an effort to blind him.

Leaping through the air, bringing his weapon down where the young knight lay, Sir Donavan's sword bit deep into the arena floor. The force of which crushing earth and stones alike. Flipping to his feet mere seconds before the weapon cleaved a trench along the ground, Tristan sought to attack the dark knight again. Hurling a shard of metal taken from his thigh, hidden beneath the tasset of his armor, he drew closer to his adversary. Surprised, turning away from the spark that temporarily blinded him, Sir Donavan howled as the chunk of metal lodged in his left eye.

Drawn to their feet, those gathered in the high and low stands cheered in unison. The arena erupting with deafening applause as the noise shook the very pillars of the coliseum itself.

Wounded, Sir Donavan swung his weapon wildly as he staggered back flailing at nothing; growling as he sought to clear Tristan away. Like a great fan stirring dust and wind, his sword thrashed; the force of the flurry knocking him off balance. Ducking under the flaying sword with unsteadied strikes, the young knight slashed and hacked at the large warrior's arms; his ebony gantlets glowing red as Tristan's sword threatened to melt the armor. Gathering himself, trying desperately to locate his enemy, Sir Donavan turned quickly; the spikes aligning his suit stabbing into the young knight's arm as he slipped beyond their reach.

Feeling his arm going numb, _poison_ , Tristan thought as his fingers refused to make a fist causing him to retreat.

"I wonder, will the lad be able to take the man's life when the time comes," Dorian said standing like those around him. "It's no easy thing to ask of one's self."

"If he must; Tristan will do what needs to be done," Cassandra said looking on. "Trust and believe Dorian, he is fully aware such is the price of combat and the duty of the vocation he selects to pursue."

Tempering his voice, "Yield and lay down your weapon," Tristan said displaying his sword, holding the hilt with both hands. "I have no desire to take your life Sir Donavan; do not give me cause."

"You're delusional, you little shit," Sir Donavan said seeing Tristan's hands trembling. "Do you really think this scratch will keep me from splitting you in two? I can see from here you've discovered the gift meant for that arrogant bastard Du'pont. Soon you'll be unable to lift that toy sword boy, and once I kill you; I'll rape your corpse, drain your blood and take your eye to replace my own. Now tell me, how handsome shall I be with your soft doe eye winking back at me in my mirror?"

Charging with reckless abandon, Sir Donavan attacked; the dark knight shouting as he flung his weapon, the black great-sword slicing through the air like a colossal wheel spinning above the ground. Reacting without hesitation, Tristan flung his own weapon aside and held his ground. His legs unable to move as the poison coursing through his veins caused his limbs to weaken.

' _Were you afraid of him_ ,' Tristan heard his aunt Cassandra asking. Her words spoken after sparring with him at Lake Justinia outside New Haven.

Only seven years of age at the time _, No, aunt Cassandra_ , Tristan lied; his arm broken the night before after tripping as he retreated from Sir William. The thin small boy challenging the ill-mannered knight to a duel in his aunt's honor.

' _Fear is permitted you know; according to my first instructor, Sir Kellen, it was downright required; but only in regards to battling him,'_ she said smiling, the crisp predawn air causing her words to ascend in vapors while she spoke.

' _He often said, "Fear was the companion that accompanied all righteous men into battle, and the enemy that caused all cowards to flee. That on the battlefield, every sane man wishes to abscond from conflict." In my life time, I've seen so-called brave knights do just that; as well as the lowest of warriors defy all definitions of defeat with courage. It's only beyond fear that the miraculous can be found; that faith can have its fullest manifestation when tested. Do not hesitate to embrace it, far too few have the courage to do so…and forfeit victory in the process.'_

 _Does running from Sir William make me a coward aunt Cassandra_ , Tristan asked.

' _No dear nephew,_ she said messing his hair _. 'Only denying one's convictions could ever do that_.'

With long powerful strides, Sir Donavan chased after his sword. The fury of the large knight blinding him to all but the, "would be champion", who stood motionless before him. A foolish child, the boy was unable to move as an extract of Wyvern venom shut down every motor function in his body with the beating of his own heart. Watching his sword reach the boy mere seconds before him, the large Venitori knight drew back his armored fist.

Standing, counting his breaths, Tristan willed his body to respond turning slightly. Pivoting on his heels as Sir Donavan's sword traveled passed him. Using every ounce of strength left to him, he grabbed the weapon's hilt. Spun by the swords momentum, hearing the large knight expel air, Tristan buried the long black blade into the chest of Sir Donavan up to the guard.

Spitting blood into the back of his helm as the smaller knight faced away from him; punching air with an open fist, Sir Donavan's enormous fingers sliding down the young knight's back. Sighing, as both warriors fell to their knees balanced on the hilt and blade of the great sword, neither ever bore witness to what followed as sight and sound fading beyond their recognition. The champion of the thirtieth _**Tournament of the Divine**_ collapsing into a sea of darkness upon the arena floor as the world around him ceased to exist.


	2. Chapter 2

**PROLOG**

 **Tevinter Imperium: Vol Dorma**

 **C** autiously entering the large sitting room of Castle Roma, Jibsin Mossdale bowed deeply. Summoned by his master, the elderly wood-elf moved slowly across the lavished chamber furnished with the finest artwork, tapestries and décor. Approaching his lord, who entertained a small group of guest sitting throughout the chamber; the aging slave offered the black parchment held in his trembling hands.

"Is that news from Orlais," one of the guest inquired, a fat well-dressed merchant eating nuts and dried grapes. The man sitting on a large plush round chair positioned at the center of the room. "What say you of our brother? Are the rumors true; has he fallen?"

"You speak as if his death was some noble endeavor and not the act of a fool," a much slimmer businessman, equally attired, interrupted. The delicate man drawing closer to Jibsin's master with the use of a crimson cane; followed closely by two white mabari pups. "Was the nature of Ser Donavan's plot discovered? Has the Chantry and their accursed Divine become aware of our dealings in Thedas?"

"Please, allow me a moment," Jibsin's Master, Tiberius Phalsian said, the Tevinter Magister whispering an incantation as he unsealed the scroll. The spell recited over the black document causing the room to darken as several candles flickered and died.

With the sound of a quill being put to paper, words began to rise from the empty page and glow red as they floated upward for all to see. The ancient elvish script circling the room slowly before growing as if written by some unseen hand in midair. Seemingly, birth from beyond the fade itself, countless in number, paragraphs filled the chamber above them. Lowering his eyes as he looked away, Jibsin awaited his dismissal silently, fearfully. The elderly elf feeling the words as they somehow spoke to him.

"Slain by a child...surely, this so-called **Knight of the Vanguard** , was not worthy to walk among us," a third guest; a muscular dark elf dressed in a sleeveless Tevinter summoning robe said. "It would seem the young knight did us a favor in dispatching him."

"That is of little concern," Lord Tiberius said, pointing to another paragraph. "Our master requires that the Chantry and all its allies remain unaware of our affairs. We are too few to oppose them directly now, but our time draws near. The arrogance and bravado of Ser Donavan, as well as the impotence of his actions, compromises us all. We'll be forced to terminate our initial plans and alter our timetable…"

"Perhaps, but his death needn't be in vain," the obese merchant said sipping wine. "Although his victory would have discredited and tarnished the integrity of the Divine's great contest; the death of the young knight, Ser Pentaghast, still provides us with a rare opportunity. Given the fame of his aunt and the manner of his victory in the games, surely all the noble houses of Thedas will wish to honor him."

Turning to address the beautiful woman clad in red; who sat studying Jibsin from across the room, "Yes, such a distraction may prove useful in masking our movements throughout the lower territories," Lord Tiberius said. "Milady, why so quiet? Have you nothing to add?"

"If your slave can read ancient Dalish; he should die."

 **Chapter 2: "No Fault of Your Own"**

 **The Frostback Mountains: New Haven**

 **F** eeling the chill of night just before the dawning of a new day, High Lord Seeker, Cassandra Pentaghast, sought the warmth of her cloak. Latching the garment and concealing herself beneath its hood, she swiftly made her way toward the stables of New Haven. The small secluded village hidden away beneath the foothills of the Frostback Mountain Range near Lake Justinia. Moving along the cobblestone streets under a cover of fleeting darkness, the revered elder-knight sought the shadows hidden from the glow of cottages, inns and shops. Each lantern hung over doorpost and on light poles casting misshapen shadows onto the streets and surrounding buildings along the main walkways. In the distance, nocturnal creatures sang far above the valley floor; the breaking of the day over New Haven promising to be well suited for travel.

Like a den of waking fennce foxes, those that occupied the sleeping settlement would soon flood its streets with unimaginable clamor as they began their day. The commerce of business and labor spreading throughout the village setting everyone to their task with the ringing of morning bells. The great chimes reverberating off the surrounding mountains; reassuring each man, woman and child placed reverently under the protection of the Chantry and its, Seekers of Truth, all was well. A holy order, the Chantry was burdened with the responsibility of guarding and uphold the highest principals of Andraste as it gave purpose and direction. Their seekers, sworn knights of the order, acting as the embodiment of the Maker's judgment; chosen to protect all those that served Him. Yet, sneaking passed several patrolling guards as she made her way beyond a row of bakeries, blacksmith shops and apothecaries; Cassandra felt more the thief and less the leader of such a holy brotherhood.

Arriving at the back of the stables, squeezing through loosen planks dislodged weeks in advance, she sought to saddle her horse. Calming the black, Imperial Warmblood, she gently tugged its breaded mane. Whispering into its ear, persuading the animal all was well, Casandra knelt to recover its saddle hidden beneath the hay in the corner of its pen.

Reaching deep into the mound as she searched, "You won't find it there," a voice spoke out of the darkness. "I removed it yesterday and hid it elsewhere."

"Then you would do well to return it to me," Cassandra whispered, drawing her sword.

Stepping closer, "That I…will not do, High Lord Seeker," the voice said defiantly.

Like a star being born in darkness, a small pinprick of light grew. The illumination from the small white orb less than that of a single candle; its intensity becoming slightly greater as it gave way to the tall figure holding it in the palm of his hand. Looking toward the entrance of the stable, hearing the guards discussing the pleasure of women, battle and ale Cassandra sheath her sword.

"Callum, dim the light," she ordered as her eyes adjusted to the glow. "Why have you come here? Did Seeker Armmon send you to spoil my plans? I thought him beyond his years, and still the man remains as cunning as ever. Tell me, do my guards; do they know, I've left their charge?"

"No," Callum said increasing the glow of the orb. "But, it would be easy enough to make them conscious of your deception. So, tell me; what are your plans, milady?"

Seeing Callum's face clearly for the first time in the light, Cassandra became aware of how much the boy had grown. After their return from the games and Tristan's great burial ceremony in Val Royeaux nearly two years past, she had scarcely laid eyes on the elfish boy. Consumed by her own grief and despair, she decided to keep herself from everyone outside the inner circle of the order, even refusing the company of her dearest friends. Likewise, sequestrated into the service of Sage Seeker Armmon, the aging healer's own health failing, Callum was kept busy with cares of his own. Standing almost two heads taller than she last remembered, the boy's once slender frame now carried weight. His youthful features beginning to settle into what would become those of a truly handsome man.

"If you bear any love for me: stand aside and let me depart in peace."

Stepping forward, "I will hear your plans, milady." Callum said glancing toward the guards who now patrolled outside the stables.

Sighing deeply, "I'd hoped to meet with a friend in secret. The nature of our encounter is delicate, one we'd rather not explain," Cassandra whispered. "I'm sure you can understand."

"Lies do not become you milady; even half-truths," Callum said not hiding the irritation in his voice. "If you would rather your Dunrosha guardsmen question you; then I'm left with little choice."

Appointed two Divine Knights to serve as protection by Vivienne herself; Cassandra's holy knights were given the task of watching over her morning, noon and night. The Divine Victoria fearing the Lord Seeker would somehow harm herself during her time of mourning. A benevolent if not subtle ruse, one designed to uphold the appearance of Vivienne's station, the holy-guards were meant to keep Cassandra from doing what she was attempting; trying to leave New Haven unobstructed.

"How have you been made aware of my actions; who betrayed me? Was it my handmaid, Talia; I knew the girl could not be trusted."

"The correspondence from Val Royeaux by Lady Leliana; each letter was coded using the Inquisition's cyphers taught to me by…"

Eyeing Callum, "Varric indulged him far too much during their time together," Cassandra interrupted. "As my nephew apparently did with you. That being the case…given all you know, stand aside; your questions only serve to slow me down."

"Yet, I will have your answer, milady."

"I go to receive information concerning the whereabouts of the pirate lord who betrayed my kin and left him for dead."

"To what end," Callum said sounding bewildered. "The dwarf has committed no direct crime against Thedas or the Chantry. He has harmed no member of the order; so why pursue him? No lawful justice can be gained by knowing his location, he is blameless, innocent milady."

Infuriated, drawing her sword from its sheath once more, "You would barter the life of that coward," Cassandra said raising her blade to Callum's throat. "You, you of all people; stand in defense of the nug-fucker that deceived Tristan on the field of battle?"

Gently pushing Cassandra's blade aside, "No milady, I only desired to measure your fury," Callum said walking away. "I needed to be sure it matched my own…before I allowed you to accompany me on my quest; to murder, Audius Burdock."

 **Amaranthine Ocean**

 **T** o the east, with a reddish-orange glow, a new day began. With only the thinnest shroud of vapor remaining in a sapphire sky, the cool crisp air awaited the warmth of the sun. For as far as the eye could see the **Amaranthine Ocean** appeared tranquil, still. The first light of the day shimmering off the vast deep like diamonds scattered over black silk. Standing at the forecastle of the Alicia Arcadia, Captain Illion Nubarrum III, watched as the great transport stirred the ocean beneath it. The Antivan Trader, parting the waters in white plumes of escalating waves; its sails filled with a steady wind as it cut through the ocean like a pearl dagger. Painted, using crushed pearl stones, large round pinkish-blue eggs taken from the belly of giant gamlow whales, the ship rippled and reflected the ocean off its polished exterior. The Arcadias' outer hull, like all Antivan vessels, taking on the distinct properties of the stones themselves. The pearls ground into a fine powder and added to liquefied metals; cooled then crafted and fashioned to cover the hull of every ship purchased from the **Antivan Shipmaster Guild**. With her gilded gold trimmings and elegant lines, the Alicia Arcadia was a sight to behold.

 _The wind is with us_ , Captain Illion thought as the smell of the ocean assaulted him.

Above him, the sound of bellowing sails sang, filling to breaking with air. Almost invisible, the colossal blue canvases were barely seen in the dawning light. Each one etched with golden boarders that enclosed the sigil of his house; a golden kraken on a field of white.

"Our way seems sure today."

"Aye, I believe it shall be," Illion said looking back over his shoulder. "Is all good Captain Wyldor?"

A stout balding man, Captain Vladimir Wyldor's face was covered with wiry gray whiskers touched with hints of red. The dark uniforms of the sell-sword and his men contrasting with the white soft spun uniforms of Illion and his crew. Over a blue vest, Captain Wyldor wore a black padded long coat fixed loosely with two brass buckles in the shape of small hands clutching daggers. The coat marked with the metallic seal of a Vanguard Mercenary on its breast; its tails hanging to his knees. His pants, matching leathers that puffed away from his thighs, were stuffed into blue long boots marked with the engraving of the same seal. Bouncing on Captain Wyldor's waist as he made his way forward, a blue scabbard and belt decorated with brass studs held his sword; all of which had been polished to a pristine shine. No small task given the effect of sea spray on leather and metal, Illion thought.

"Please, no need for such formalities Captain," Wyldor said lowering a lantern carried above his head. " I have no title here at sea; you may call me Ser, if you like. My men find it easy enough."

"I see…a reprieve from formalities then," Illion said facing the ocean once more. "Is all well, Ser Wyldor?"

"In truth, no; I don't think I'm cutout for sailing," the sell-sword said acknowledging Illion's guardsman. "I fear I'm the only one that doesn't sleep aboard your ship at night; you and your personal guard excluded of course."

"It's been said; the sea is only tolerant of children and dogs," Illion mocked. "That her ebbs and flows can take many years to get used to; some sailors never do. The pitch of a ship either puts a man to sleep or causes him to drink."

"Yes, I can believe that; a drink would do me fine. The taste of vomit lingers in my mouth continually and my ass is sore from too much use. I've emptied my innards more times than I care to say. Mayhap, a cup of honey wine and crust of bread would help to silence them."

Bending down, Illion picked up a large skin of spiced wine placed near his feet, "This should help," he said smiling.

"You'd think sitting a horse for most of my life, I'd fare better on the back of a swaying beast."

"One would think."

"A reprieve from formalities," Ser Wyldor toasted, turning up the half empty bladder. Feeling the wine warming his chest against the morning air, "Thank you, that was much needed," he said lowering the wineskin and wiping his mouth. "Do tell, shall we reach Antiva at our appointed time?"

"It would appear so," Illion announced looking up toward the sails. "If this wind holds throughout, we'll make port in four days or so. Do you fear your employer's cargo will not keep, Ser?"

Pausing, swallowing more wine, "Lord Rothschild's goods are secure and ripe as can be," Ser Wyldor said. "It will be good to see land and feel earth beneath my feet again too. This ship has robbed me of more than a little sleep these last six months. No offense Captain Illion, but your craft will not be missed."

"None taken Ser, the sea is always cruel and trying, but without mercy for anyone ill prepared to traverse it."

Setting sail during the tylarim, a time sailors believed old-gods walked the ocean seeking souls. The Arcadia came upon difficult waters and storms early. Two of Ser Wyldor's men lost in a squall after falling overboard only ten days into the journey; several more followed only weeks later. Most of Illion's crew thought it an act of the Maker; retribution for the greed of the trade societies, organizations made up of the wealthiest shipping and trading houses in all Thedas. Unlike his crew, Illion gave it little consideration, rather concerning himself with his coin. Hired to exclusively service the needs of House Rothschild, the largest and richest house in the _**Antiva**_ _**Trade Society**_ , he was paid handsomely. Ordered to transport Captain Wyldor and his men to the land of Uir across the **Amaranthine Ocean** and back again, the return trip had been uneventful. With Lord Rothschild's cargo placed in the lower holds among the Arcadia's standard consignments, more than thirty Vanguard sell-swords guarded the goods day and night. Uninspected by Illion or his crew, who thought it best not to inquire; all counted themselves lucky the gods had been appeased, if indeed they were.

"The seagulls fly low this morning," Ser Wyldor said looking toward the horizon.

Illion's thoughts interrupted, "What say you, Ser," he inquired.

Beyond the horizon, what looked to be a small flock of birds could be seen taking flight. Their long black wings silhouetted against the coming sun as each bird seemingly grew larger while hovering just above the waves.

"Watchman, what say you to the east," Illion shouted, peering up into the sails of the Arcadia.

Silence lingered as the unseen man contemplated his reply, " _ **Amphibirons**_ Captain; several mountings over the horizon," the watchmen finally cried out; chiming a warning bell. "They're clustered just outside the range of our long guns, Captain!"

"Lower the main sails and secure all riggings," Illion commanded.

With the ringing of bells, the Arcadia awoke with life; her crew springing from sleep moving amid ship. Wiping the prior night away, the crew of the transport hastened to their post; most fast asleep above deck half-dressed and exhausted from the day before. Roused from their slumber by the boot of Illion's second in command, they quickly became fully aware of their purpose. Sailors seasoned with years of serves to their captain, each were accustomed to the screams and shouts in the preparation of battle.

"Every man take heed of yourself at once," Illion's second barked; the lean elf fully dressed in uniform with a sword in hand. "Runners, mind the aft anchors and prepare to lower chains! Gunners, raise all war-windows, I want eyes on every vessel in the water! Long-gunners, man your forward cannons and await our captain's orders."

"I must attend my responsibilities," Ser Wyldor said taking hold of his sword preparing to depart.

"Go Ser, and may valor be your glory…," Captain Illion said, reciting the Vangardsman's creed.

"Aye, it shall be…or death my reward," Ser Wyldor finished.

 _ **P**_ eering through a large spy-scope, Captain Audius Burdock studied the great Antivan Trader lowering its main sails as it reduced speed. Positioned two leagues away from his fleet that rose over the skyline, the dwarven pirate thought to catch the trade ship off guard. Driven hard toward them on a favorable wind, the transport would have little time to adjust its speed and employ its weapons before being overtaken. Although able to match any comparable vessels' mobility at sea, even a Qunari Dreadnought's power; the Antivan whore was ill-equipped to contend with the ten smaller ships he deployed against it. Vastly smaller and powered by conjured sails, the _**amphibirons**_ were among the fastest and swiftest sea crafts ever built. Redesigned for close combat at sea and on land, the ten-man elven craft could travel above water and sand using magic drawn from the fade.

"They're slowing down Captain," Hetos announced, joining Burdock on the forecastle of the _**Gilgamesh**_. Second in command, the barrel-chested human only stood two heads taller than his captain; with a stomach, as large as a bellowing sail. "Our scheme is undone, but I don't think they've spotted our lady."

From a distance, Burdock knew the elongated sails of the _**amphibiron,**_ when adjusted for flight, could be mistaken for the wings of a large bird hunting over the ocean. A common tactic used among pirates and smugglers to avoid detection; it also helped to draw unsuspecting vessels closer before being raided. Positioned south of his fleet aboard the _**Gilgamesh**_ , he desired to attack the transport on two fronts. Sweeping around the Antivan transport and taking it from behind, before crippling and boarding his prey. With his trap undone, the pirate lord now had no choice but to attack the larger vessel head on using his great lady as bait.

"Hoist main sails, secure all riggings, tighten jibbs and reposition our lines," Burdock demanded. "Assemble my fleet in a penta formation across the horizon, Hetos. We'll keep our distance and remain out of range until we're properly engaged."

"Aye Captain," Hetos said, turning his attention to the crew of the Gilgamesh. "Take heed dogs, unshaken the mast with haste! If our fleet meets that whore without us, they'll break their fast on cannon fire and seawater!"

With his arms raised, using hands signals, Hetos relayed his captain's orders to the watchman hidden in the crow's-nest of the ship. The three men quickly doing the same as they flashed and tilted mirrors into the sun. Seeing the five minor captains of the Veka, Somarus, Lomara, Kunta and Xaru slowly falling away from the five other attack ships spreading across the skyline, Hetos reported back to his captain.

"Everything is, as you'd have it, captain! We await further orders!"

"Increase our speed and proceed to meet our mark head on," Burdock said smiling. "We shall see if this bloated Antivan whore, with all the trimmings, can out dance my lady."

A restored ancient Rivain covatta, the Gilgamesh was the last of her kind. A third the size of the Arcadia, with a crew of sixty men, the black-wood war frigate could out maneuver the larger ship at four times its speed. Partially armored beneath its belly midway up the keel, the Gilgamesh was laced with two rows of cannons on both the starboard and port side and boasted two sets of long guns fore and aft. Rapidly racing toward the horizon, its dark mahogany hull drinking sunlight, it swiftly split water beneath it.

Brooding, watching his fleet spreading out, drifting back as the lightly armed covatta took point, Burdock ordered the small armada to adopt a V shape attack formation. The ten smaller vessels flanking each side of the Gilgamesh like a flock of birds in a migrating flight pattern. Using the drag and wake of the larger ship, the small amphibiron flotilla quickly glided through the ocean increasing their speed before taking flight. Closing its distance, as it drafted to a complete stop, the Antivan transport rose its forward cannons. The large silver arms, producing clouds of grayish smoke with the sound of thunder, as six long guns broke the silence of the day sending water and sea spray high into the air.

"They'll not take long to find their range, Captain," Hetos announced, seeing the small attack ships gliding over cannon fire as they realigned their green translucent sails. "Should we not prepare to turn?"

"No, we'll hold our course, let them bark at us a little longer," Burdock said spitting, to ward off evil. "We lie well beyond their range; and milady needs to give my captains time to slip inside their defenses. But, on my command; make ready to turn her hard into the wind and flash them our backside."

"There will be no victory for you, Audius Burdock."

"Pausing, his hand on his sword's hilt, "Hold your tongue witch," Burdock commanded. "Or I swear...I'll remove it."

Turning, seeing the strangely beautiful half elf, half qunari half-breed ascending a flight of stairs leading to the ship's helm, Burdock spit again. Standing on deck, Lucia's countenance threatened to out shine the day. Her fair skin, contrasted beneath a flowing wave of reddish-brown tresses and a hooded emerald green gown; seemingly, forever untouched by sunlight. Taken as payment in trade many years ago, the hornless half-breed was considered Burdock's principal consort and feared as an oracle among his crew.

"May-hap, we...you, you should..."

With a look, Burdock silenced his second in command, "Leave us witch, this affair concerns you not," he said roughly, returning his gaze toward the sea and Antivan transport. "I'll hear no soothsaying, nor warnings today!"

Turning, "Then I shall return when summoned," Lucia said, departing to the lower deck of the ship the way she came.

"Sheath your tongue Hetos, and give care to my commands," Burdock ordered as the transport repositioned its long guns. "Swing us about and put distance between our lady and that whore."

"Aye," Hetos said spinning the wheel of the Gilgamesh hard right. "All brace and hold fast, you dogs!"

 **The Frostback Mountains: New Haven**

" **W** e've not seen her or the lad milord, we swear it," the guardsman said looking at his companions. The apparent fear on their faces solidifying as the two Dunrosah Knights following Sage Armmon entered the room.

Sitting inside the Hall of Order, "Our Lord Seeker, the boy and four mounts are missing," Commander August Loannis said, searching Cassandra's desk. "Was it not your duty to stand watch at the stables last night? That alone makes you either lairs or incompetent, you decided."

"The seeker was aware of their movements; she'd have known when to avert their patrol," A Dunrosha Knight said, halting just inside the room.

"Our lady and my apprentice is nowhere to be found within the village," Sage Armmon said, the elderly man bent over slightly as he walked aided by a staff. "It is most unlike them to run off and forsake their duties. I fear they have been seduced by a melancholy spirt from the fade, due to long standing grief."

"My guess; a spirit of vengeance, sage teacher," Commander Loannis said rising.

"The High Lord Seeker, begun fasting and prolonging her morning prayers," the other Donrosha Knight added inspecting various tomes placed on a bookshelf. "Obviously, all part of a plan to undermine our authority and bypass our protection."

"You miss speak Ser, our lord was never under your authority…or in need of protection," Commander Loannis stated flatly. "Her tolerance, as well as ours, was little more than a kindness afforded the Divine. One, I no longer believe is necessary; given you've failed miserably to care for her. As acting commander of this order, I release you from your duties and dismiss you both. We'll handle the safeguarding of our Lord Seeker from this point on."

"Until the Divine recalls us to the citadel, we're duty-bound to recover Lord Seeker Pentaghast. Of course, you may assist, but the responsibility of her care is ours."

"And how shall you accomplish that," Ser Loannis said pensively. "She undoubtedly, does not wish to be found or cared for. Given the fact she now has a five-hour head start and knows the land as well as I; without the Maker's help, you'd be hard pressed to track her. Not to mention, know where to begin searching?"

Holding up several letters hidden behind a portrait of, Skyhold, "I suggest we begin here," the Donrosha Knight said.

 **The Frostback Mountains**

" **A** little further and we'll rest I promise," Cassandra urged, leading her mount as it fought against her.

Around them, the swirl and howl of the wind seemed to fill the world. The fresh powder blowing down from the highest peak of the Frostback Mountain Range covering the world in a pristine layer of glittering white. Trudging forward, lowering her face against the numbing cold, she steadied her steed and course. For several hours accompanied by Callum, stopping only briefly to swap mounts, they rode. Releasing their first charges and ordering them back to New Haven, she was sure they had returned; both warhorses personally trained by her own hands. Reaching a bypass and hidden trail up through the Frostback; unknown to all but the foolish and most stubborn of adventures, the elder knight now sought shelter.

"Tell me milady, why such a perilous route," Callum said, trying to adjust to the cold as he sunk inside his furs. "Assuredly, you do not aim to freeze upon the Frostback?"

"You're more than welcome to turn back at any time," Cassandra said annoyed, handing Callum her mount's reins.

Ordering him to lead the horses away from the mountains' rock face toward a cluster of trees in the distance; she approached a large sheet of ice extending down the side of the mountain. Drawing her sword, carefully hacking at frost and snow, she retreated quickly. The popping of dislodged ice cracking overhead causing large spear like shards to plummet to the earth below.

"Whatever you do, don't breathe it in and be sure to keep your mount well in hand," Cassandra cried, drawing her steed further away.

Behind her, hearing several sheets of ice shattering against the mountain side, she leapt onto her horse. The explosion sending a cascade of powder and frost across the landscape as it blocked out the sun. The small tree formation bathed beneath mounds of snow, bending under its weight as it washed over them. Holding her breath, tossed from her saddle, Cassandra tightened her grip around her horse's reins as waves of snow and frost overwhelmed her. The surging powder forcing her mount back as the large stallion fought to stay upright. Snorting loudly, slowly struggling to free itself, pulling her in tow, the black warhorse liberated them both from the ice and cold. Around them the landscape had been altered; the once pristine snow now littered with unearthed rocks, dirt and fallen ice as a low humming rose from beneath the mountain. The echo of a distant avalanche and scurrying hordes of countless creatures cutting through the silence of the day.

"You could have...killed us," Callum said trying to catch his breath as he knelt covered in snow.

"That's what I told Varric when he did it," Cassandra replied dusting herself off. "Yet, I survived, as did you."

"Was it your aspiration to see me dead, milady?"

"My desire was of little to no concern," Cassandra said retrieving her sword. "If we are to face what lies ahead, the chore of preserving your life must be your own. A task I doubt you capable of…given all I know."

"I am not the child you once knew, Lord Seeker," Callum said leading his mount around her. "Nor am I in need of your protection…or guidance."

"We shall see young sage. Surely, we shall know your strength soon enough."

Uncovered by crumbling ice and shifting snow a large passageway had been revealed. The enormous arching doorway hewn into the side of the rock face framed by elaborate etchings and dwarven scrollwork. A byproduct of the lost cities that once belonged to the proud dwarven people of Thedas, the upper roads cutting through the Frostback High grounds were seldom used. Taken over and inhabited by darkspawn, demonic and tainted entities, the underground roads were no longer safe for common travel. Only journeymen believing themselves capable of withstanding the dangerous conditions, rigorous terrain, and in desperate need to save time; opted for such a detour. The high roads of Orzammar, the remarkable underground dwarven city, reducing the eight-day trek around the Frostback to the Hinterlands by more than five days. Gradually melting the snow and ice obstructing entry, the heat from inside the opening could be felt beyond the darkness within. Standing outside the entrance, feeling the warmth produced, Callum packed away his furs and removed his staff from his saddle.

"Should I lead, or will you milady," he asked causing his staff to glow as he mounted his steed. The long spear like beam decorated with arcane markings and small rings of ornate gems. Its head, topped with several silverite spikes, forming a lance shaped crown that housed a blue lyrium crystal in the center.

"I pray the Maker, your skill is worthy of the weapon you carry," Cassandra said, adjusting herself in her saddle. "By your lead, we go."

 **Amaranthine Ocean**

 **W** ith the skill afforded her, Nalva'ta scrambled up the tow ropes of the Antivan ship deftly. The lean elven pirate adjusting her weight as the large transport rocked gently in the **Amaranthine Ocean**. Biting down on two small knives held between her teeth she gestured for her crew to follow. Around her, the deafening sound of cannons and screams mingled with the groans of the ship thrilled her. The smell of gun powder and magic igniting the air only adding to the excitement she felt as she climbed. Glancing back briefly, watching her men swiftly ascend the tow line and anchor chain behind her, she quickened her pace.

Far below them, the _**Somarus**_ bobbed like a child's toy in the wake of the Antivan vessel. The tiny _**amphibiron**_ slipping pass all the confusion as the gunners of the trading transport attempted to sink the other attack boats maneuvering inside their defenses.

Pulling herself inside the release whole that lowered the enormous anchor on the starboard-side of the ship, Nalva waited for her men to do the same. The captain of the Somarus and minor captain under the pirate lord Audius Burdock, she'd been instructed to cripple the ship should her lord's initial plan fail. Sheathing her knives before withdrawing two dual-bladed daggers from their scabbards on her back, Nalva slipped silently to the winching rooms' door. The large compartment housing several giant mechanisms designed to hoist the anchor and lines using less than twenty men topside. Attached to reels, the lines and chain would spool themselves when lifted, filling the cabin when not in use; the compartment rarely occupied during battle.

Without a sound, leaping quietly into the room, **Gudatsen** made his way to her. The Avvarian's painted face and body glowing white like dried bones as he unsheathed two axes from his side. Followed closely, **Marius** helped **Jakob Stonehammer** and **Fink** into the room. The human raider from the Hissing Waste pulling the dwarf and dark elf aboard before waving off the remaining crew on the ship below.

"We move with stealth and haste," Nalva said eyeing everyone. "Stonehammer, you and Gudatsen make your way to the captain quarters above. Secure all coin, jewels and documents you find; then return to the Somarus."

Adjusting his fingerless stone gauntlets, covered in ancient dwarven script, "What about our lord's orders, milady," Stonehammer said. The muscular dwarf, with blond hair and green-eyes, dressed in a vest and shorten trousers ending below his knees.

"You mind my orders fool, or I'll be the one to remove those delicate eyes from that thick skull," Nalva said brandishing her dagger. "Marius and Fink, you'll stay with me to complete our lord's wishes, yes?"

Nodding in compliance, Fink detached two flasks from her waist belt. The petite grayish elf wearing a padded hooded coat and pants adorn with leather straps, hooks and countless miniature flasks.

"The lower decks will be well guarded," Marius said. "May I suggest we make our way to the great cabin also; before we proceed to the gun room? May be, we'll find a change of attire there."

Studying the handsome human with his unkept bread, black low cropped hair and deep gray eyes, Nalva considered his wisdom.

Sheathing her blades, "Very well, Gudatsen you'll take lead until we reach the Captian's Cabin. As for you thief, you'll cover the rear."

Smiling at Nalva, "There's no better place to cover," Marius said drawing knives worn across his chest.

"If we should encounter resistance kill every man in sight save the ship's captain, our lord want's him alive."

Outside the door, the hall appeared empty, the voices of men giving and taking orders heard above and below. Moving quickly toward a short winding staircase at the far end of the passageway, Gudatsen hurried upstairs followed by the others; the Avvarian warrior halting midway, signaling for all to stop. At the top of the stairs two armored knights stood at rest holding long swords as they conversed. The two men guarding the captain's quarters pondering the outcome of the battle raging around them. With a gesture of her hand, Nalva watched the two men fall to their knees as two throwing knives and small bolts pierced through their throats beneath their helms. Looking back, seeing Fink reloading the bracelet like devices she wore on her wrist, the darkling winked with a smile. Stripping one of the guards of their heavy armor, Marius dressed himself in the knight's cloak, helm, breastplate, gauntlets and greaves. The raider looking as if he was somehow meant to wear them.

"You wear the armor well, thief," Stonehammer said, dragging a knight into the captain's chamber.

Dragging the other, "No need to insult me dwarf," Marius replied. "Only kings, slaves and cowards don steel and are trained to like it."

Inside the cabin, lavishly arranged with expensive furnishings, gilded trim and woodwork, Nalva examined a replica of Thedas displayed on a large table in the center of the room. A topographical map, the representation was a scale depiction of Thedas with many major cities and towns altered or replaced; some removed altogether.

"What's to be made of this," Nalva inquired of Marius, the human standing beside her in the brownish-gray plated everite armor.

"I'm unsure, perhaps it's a map of ancient Thedas. No way of knowing, but regardless, we're unable to take it with us."

"Fink, can you commit this to memory?"

An alchemist and assassin, the tiny elf could not speak, her tongue removed by her Venatori master before she killed him long ago. The ships' navigator aboard the Somarus, she was known for her ability to remember the slightest details read from books or seen on diagrams. Nodding yes, the elven rouge quickly ran her eyes up and down the table stopping to touch the map numerous times before walking away.

Gathering whatever they could carry into two sacks, Gudatsen and Stonehammer departed as ordered. Finding only ill fitted robes, shirts and trousers, Nalva and Fink elected to follow Marius' lead as they made their way back downstairs pass the officer cabins on the third deck of the ship. Built for transporting enormous amounts of cargo, the Antivan trade-transport stood almost two hundred and twenty-four stones above its waterline, showing seven decks. Housing more than a thousand crewmen, many of whom slept between the ship's cannons and guns, with a few below in the cargo holds; the transport was considered a floating fortress. Boasting over one hundred and thirty cannons, forty port and starboard between three decks and twenty more found topside including its long guns, only a fool would ever think to attack it and survive. The heaviest cannons and remaining numbers positioned port and starboard on the sixth deck above the ships' vast cargo holds.

Descending another flight of stairs and making their way across the ship, Nalva and Fink entered the gun room on the port side. Almost unnoticed Marius made his way around the transport amongst its crew. The uniformed sailors saluting him as sentries in light armor spoke to him briefly; the armored thief playing his role well beyond expectation. Following him from a distance as best they could while Marius distracted or ordered the ship's crewmen away; Nalva and Fink hide in rooms between supply bags, furnishings or crates. Making his way to the syphon compartment on the fifth deck, the room housing the large bronze cylinders and pumps that drained or carried water throughout the ship, Marius ordered several crewmen topside. Eyeing the knight queerly, the sailors scarcely dressed in trousers, continued their work. The twenty or so men managing the large pumps that were critical to the ships' operations as they directed the flow of water throughout using a series of pipes and levers. Capable of quenching fires or draining flooded compartments on lower decks; during a time of conflict their roles became vital. Drawing the knight's sword, he carried on his hip, Marius swiftly cut through four men. Astonished and bewildered, the others sought weapons of wood and bronze piping scattered throughout the cabin as the thief made short work of two more. In a flurry of screams and shouts, Nalva and Fink assisted the raider in dispatching the rest, the massacre concealed under the echoing of cannon fire in the distance.

"These pumps will not hold if not properly bleed off," Marius said removing the knight's armor. "We'll be trapped below deck if they realize these men are not performing their duties."

"Then I suggest you maintain the illusion for as long as possible," Nalva said searching the room. "Fink, prepare your mixture."

Taking the knight's helm, the elven rouge broke several flasks inside it. The concoction rising in a purplish-red mist of thick smoke as it bubbled. Using a large splinter of wood taken from the floor, Fink stirred in a flask of pitch causing the contents to gel like blood left to long out of the body. Ripping the trousers of a dead sailor, she wrapped the contents of the helm inside four small bundles and handed them to her captain.

Taking the tied clothes, "Will these do what is needed," Nalva said closing off a valve connected to one of the pipes aligning the wall.

Nodding her assurance, Fink proceeded to smear what remained of her creation on the walls and pumps throughout the room. The smell causing Marius to gag as he scampered about in vain trying to control the flow of water being directed to the chamber. Placing the contents given to her in the piping, Nalva reopened the valve listening to the sound of rushing water. Unsheathing her daggers from her back once more, she moved to the door of the room.

"I'll not leave this ship empty handed," she said eyeing Marius keenly. "Nor will I hear any more suggestions. We move to the holds and await what follows. At first chance given, we'll pilfer as much cargo as the Somarus can safely carry before rejoining our lord, yes?"

 **L** ike bees annoying a great bear, Audius Burdock watched his tiny fleet sail around the Antivan trading vessel. The speed of the close quarter crafts allowing them to maneuver in and out of the larger ships' defenses with seeming ease. Casting canisters of Antivan Fire, the pitch like substance igniting once exposed to air, his men could do little more than singe the hull of the great ship. Positioned well beyond the range of the transport's long guns aboard the **Gilgamesh** , the pirate lord awaited any sign his plans had taken hold.

"Another of our ships have been sunk, milord," Hetos said looking through the spy glass. "Spellcasters, aboard the enemy ship are seeking to drown our men in the water."

"How many ships remain," Burdock inquired pacing the main deck.

"Seven milord, but the Somarus has not moved far from its location. The transport gunners have switched to using scatter fire in the cannons placed on the lower levels of their ship. Soon our men will be forced to withdraw or die, Captain. What are your orders, milord?"

With the transport using smaller shots, twenty iron or steel balls wrapped in a canvas to cover a wider area once fired, Burdock's fleet wouldn't last much longer. Watching the sun reaching its zenith in the sky he knew soon the advantage of the day would be lost as well. The sudden drop in temperature as nightfall approached causing the waves and weather to change drastically, leaving his small fleet in danger of becoming wreckage.

Turning to see the Antivan whore resting port side, "Bring me Lucia," Burdock commanded, spitting overboard.

Summoned, the half breed elf ascended the stairs leading to the lower decks of the ship once more. Clothed in an enchanter's robe with its hood protecting her from the sun, she gracefully made her way toward Burdock, the pirate lord standing on the deck rail of his ship holding a jeer line as he looked out to sea.

"You sent for me, milord," Lucia said standing beside him. "What do you desire?"

Looking down on her, "What I desire is that damn ship sunk and its cargo in tow," Burdock said. "Will I have it or not?"

"The will of men are their own, as you well know."

Leaping down, drawing his sword, "Did I summon you to fill my ears with shit woman, or give me answers," Burdock replied. "Now tell me plain; will the ship yield or am I foiled?"

Looking at the beautiful elf, Burdock could see she'd been swept into a trance. Closing her eyes, her body shaking as her face seemingly glowed, Lucia could no longer hear his voice or intimidations. Making subtle gestures with her hands as though she wrote words in midair she stopped suddenly and pointed out to sea.

With a sounded like the breaking of bones, but only those of a god, the side of the great transport exploded. Followed by a series of smaller explosions, the shouts of men in the distance could be faintly heard on the wind. Turning to see water and spray stream forth from the bottom of the Antivan vessel, Burdock rushed to the helm of his ship.

"Raise main sails and lifts," he barked causing his crew to hasten to their post. "Secure the jibs and prepare long guns. We take this gilded bitch at all cost, leaving none aboard alive."

"Captain, what are your orders for the fleet," Hetos said escorting Lucia off deck. "Should I order them to board our prey, or stay their hand until we come into range?"

Smiling as he turned the Gilgamesh hard left, "Command them to rape the Antivan whore and make my way clear. All men dead save the captain of the vessel, he's mine to contend with."

 **W** ading through water plagued with bodies, blood, wood, cloth and grain; Nalva could barely hear the mayhem that surrounded her. The great explosion that rocked the sinking transport almost robbing the elven pirate of her hearing and life as she tried to right herself. Around her, livestock squealed, screeched and bayed locked away in cages as they tried desperately not to drown. The hole in the side of the ship allowing water to flow slowly into the compartment as dust and smoke reduced all visibility. Unable to contain the fires that threatened to burn the ship, the siphoning pumps destroyed by Nalva and her crew assuring they wouldn't, many sailors were abandoning ship. Ordered by her lord to place Fink's potion into the ship's piping, Nalva had been commanded to return to her own ship and depart as a sign that all had been done. Choosing rather to stay aboard and secure all that could be taken for herself and crew, it appeared that decision would be her undoing. Reaching for her daggers, remembering she'd been holding them when the floor beneath her gave way; Nalva drew the two knives attached to her hips. Attempting to make her way to the door of the cargo hold, she stumbled and fell before righting herself once more. Just one of four, the enormous hold of the transport was design to story various goods and livestock for many months. Equal to the height of two decks, the compartments had been sectioned off from one another and could be sealed air tight in case of flooding; each having their own pump. Straining to hear the commotion beyond the bay door as she approached, Nalva fought the urge to yell for help. The voices of men in the adjacent hold being ordered to brace the large cargo doors in hopes of preventing water from seeping through.

Hearing cannon fire in the distance, _the Gilgamesh_ , Nalva thought, feeling blood running down her face. The booming of the warship's guns rocking the great trader as cannon fire crashed against its hull.

Abruptly, the voices of the men went silent. The shouts of their commander recalling them as their footfalls echoing behind the bay door diminished. Feeling faint and of need of sleep, Nalva sank down and closed her eyes. The world beginning to fall away as a chill caused her teeth to chatter. Extremely cold, she now felt nothing; the frigid temperature of the sea water drawing heat from her flesh and bones. Almost asleep, behind her the splashing of water demanded her attention, the cry of a familiar voice vaguely heard like a whisper making her groan in responds. Falling back into sleep she could feel the warmth of two arms as they lifted her up. Through half lidded eyes, she turned to see the angel now holding her, a spirit from beyond the fade her mother often spoke of when she was only a child. It's voice reassuring her that all would be made right in the next life, if not in this one.

Handsome and glowing as it looked down on her, "Have you…come to take me," Nalva said going limp in its arms.

"In every way possible, if that's what you'd like," it replied, its breath smelling of rum and blood roots.

" _You…may…have me_."

Carrying his captain, Marius made his way to the breach in the roof of the hold. Looking up at Fink who knelt beside the opening holding a thin line, he watched the darkling release it down to him. No thicker than his smallest finger with a hook on the end, the cord appeared strong. Removing a shirt from one of the dead floating next to him, the raider made a makeshift harness beneath Nalva's arms and secured the cord.

"Tie it off and I'll climb up and draw our lady afterward," Marius said checking the line.

Without hesitation Fink began to draw Nalva up as she pulled the line to herself. The tiny elf groaning and grunting with every tug on the cable as she reached down and heaved back against it.

"By the Maker, I'm impressed," Marius said watching her pulling Nalva up and through the hole.

After which, securing the cable to a jeer bit, Fink tossed it back down and allowed Marius to climb up. The raider seeing the elf kissing their captain to revive her, silently thanking the gods for the opportunity and hopeful later that night; the use of the mental image. Regaining consciousness, Nalva took a moment to get her bearings, the effects of the explosion still lingering. Standing, cursing the loss of her weapons, she acquired Marius' dagger and headed to the other side of the ship.

"There are still men down in the hold," Nalva said, circumventing busted bulkheads, dying men and weaken deck boards.

"Would it not be wiser to leave this ship and distance ourselves from the pull when it subsides completely," Marius said gathering two swords taken from dead sentries.

"Must we always have these conversations, thief? Or, will I have to kill you before you learn to obey me? Whatever those men below are guarding, they'd rather die before forsaking it to the likes of our lord. That alone makes the risk well worth it, yes?"

Confronted by sailors seeking to escape the transport, Nalva and her men cut them down on sight. The untrained men, little more than skilled labor aboard such vessels, were ill equipped to match swords. Plunging back down into the belly of the ship, she was sure the men they'd face below would be of a different yoke. Only well trained and discipline men, who thought not of themselves but honor would think to die for property not their own. No doubt knights, or perhaps trained slaves; like Fink had once been before dispatching her master in favor of freedom. Whatever the case, the elven pirate was determined to have any prize valuable enough to warrant their protection. Standing at the top of the stairs leading down into the cargo holds of the ship, Nalva instructed Fink to equip her flask of Antivan Fire. The assassin mixing the contents of two smaller flasks into a much larger one worn on her belt before nodding her readiness. Moving cautiously down into the bay, unaffected by the explosions; countless barrels, containers and crates were secured to the ships' bulkheads with heavy netting. Bolted to the deck and tied together, empty cages stacked three high stood in rows of two on both starboard and port said of the ship. Drawn deeper into the darken compartment as lanterns hung burning in rows along the riders and rib beams of the ship, Nalva could feel the eyes of men watching from the shadows. With the loosing of arrows in front and behind her, Nalva dived to the side between two cages as they rang of the steel and impaled the floor. Igniting the bay with fire produced by her flask, Fink escaped into the shadows as Marius positioned himself across the room concealed behind cargo. Kneeling, unable to see Fink or Marius, Nalva slowed her breathing and listened; awaiting the next attack.

"Whatever you've come for, you won't find it here," the voice of the man commanding the others from across the hold announced, the authority in his declaration unmistakable. "Consider that a warning and this a kindness; I'll allow you to take whatever you wish from this chamber, it concerns me not. But, if you proceed any further…well, that will not be permitted, I defer to your decision."

"This ship is sinking, and I doubt milord shall be willing to transport you and those goods safely back to Antiva," Nalva said trying to locate the position of the archers that surrounded her. "But, if you and your men are incline to keep your lives, I believe lifeboats remain unused topside. Who is to say, mayhap a few of you will survive to tell your wives, sons or daughters… even grandchildren of this day."

"Not unlike the dwarven, Legion of the Dead, we ourselves too are like minded. You will find none of my men shall falter in the face of death girl. Now, take what you will from this hold and leave, my charity has reached its limit."

Descending the stairs of the hold, "Good, I was sick of hearing you yelp," Audius Burdock said, followed by Hetos and his crew.

In the thick of the chaos that ensued, Nalva sought to find Fink and Marius. The two rouges lost in the melee between the Vanguardsmen and their lord's crewmen. Evading a sword thrust of a knight intended for her chest, Nalva attempted to drive her dagger into the man's eye. Her attack, easily parried, the soldier countered with an undercut as he hammered his fist into her jaw. Off balance and forced back, Nalva knew the next sword lung would send his blade through her. Fighting to keep her footing as she braced for the inevitable, the elf tried to twist away from the blow. Surprised that the soldier had forfeited the opportunity to strike, she repositioned her guard only to see the man fall dead at her feet. Perched high atop one of the stacked cages, Fink smiled as she reloaded the devices she wore on her wrist. Locating Marius across the room, the thief in combat against two guardsmen as he wielded two swords in his defense, Nalva began to rush to his aid. Pulled from her feet instantly, slammed to the floor, she found herself kneeling, looking up at her lord.

"You'll remain at my side elf," Audius Burdock said, hammering his fist into the knees of two soldier as the men screamed and collapsed. Withdrawing their knives from sheaths on their chest, the pirate buried them into their skulls. Turning to find Nalva still on the floor beside him, "I'll not allow you to die here; not before you pay the price for your disobedience, girl."

Cutting through the vanguard of the sell-swords, Burdock ordered his crew to empty the bay of its cargo. Sealed away in the adjacent hold, the few surviving guardsmen along with their captain had retreated. Cursing them all as cowards, the pirate lord had thought to burn them alive if not for the cargo they protected. Drawing closer to the doors that secured the hold, following her lord, Nalva could her the cries of livestock on the other side. The whimpering of the animals distantly heard as if muffled by the sound of the sea rushing to meet the hull of the great ship. Using axes and hammers, the crew of the Gilgamesh smashed the doors and brought them down according to the wishes of their captain. The soft noise that once filled their ears ceasing as the doors fell.

"By the gods," Audius Burdock said as he entered the hold, the dwarven lord motionless.

Spread out, throughout the hold, countless bodies had been slaughtered. The light and dark grey corpses of elves no older than four cycles murdered as their blood flooded the floor and stained the walls of the hold. Intermingled with them, the sell-swords and their captain lay dead at the foot of the mound. The men holding bloody weapons in bloody hands.


End file.
